


fingers laced to crown

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, F/M, Season 4 AU, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, 4x24. I miss you is a lie, and yet, he holds too much self-respect to say I screwed up.  Dark Jane/Lisbon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fingers laced to crown

“Well, Teresa Lisbon’s dead body would be the perfect thing.”

 

::::

 

Jane pretends he has _some_ redeeming quality; something that is both innately good and innocent about him, considering Lisbon’s unwavering conviction (and trust) in him for nearly ten years. But as he stands outside Lisbon’s place, fingers curled around her doorknob, he thinks about what he should say when—not if—she opens the door to him.

 

Maybe he does not need to say a word, and she will just understand why he left her. After all, she has lost people to Red John too and why would she _not_ want revenge against the killer who put a kill order on Samuel Bosco?

 

Maybe—and the thought makes him chuckle and squirm—he will need to say a self-deprecating _sorry_ to communication that he is only human and he makes silly mistakes too. Silly mistakes that take him 397 miles (by aircraft) away from her and forces him to take on an alternative lifestyle, just to lure Red John out.

 

(He does not think he needs to say _I’m sorry_ to her though, as he thinks she should have seen it coming; because he, contrary to whatever she might see or believe, is _not_ a good person.)

 

Jane considers knocking, but there is _something_ —Fear? Anxiety? Stubbornness?—that keeps him from doing so; and instead, he picks her lock and shakes his head in disbelief of _how utterly trusting Teresa Lisbon is_ as he slips through her front door and settles about fixing a cup of tea.

 

He preps the familiar kettle with a smile.

 

Lisbon will wake soon.

 

::::

 

He hears her before he sees her and her footsteps, Jane thinks; sound lighter than _before_ he left her for an entire six months. His smile falls and he fears she has done something utterly idiotic, because he just up and left her without goodbye.

 

Jane hears her pause behind him and he waits for the inevitable lecture— _you selfish bastard, how in the hell could you do this to us?_ —or the exclamation— _Jane!_ —but it never comes and his smile returns at her soft sigh.

 

            “Jane.”

 

His smile is bright as he removes the whining kettle from her stove, instantly remembering the last time that he had been in her home. Timothy Carter/Red John had been their discussion topic and Lisbon’s arm had been in a sling. “I thought I would stop by and see how you’re doing.” He feels her intense stare and his smile doesn’t slip, even though it probably should. “Want a cup?”

 

Lisbon says nothing. Jane pours two cups of tea and sets them both on her small kitchen table, before his attention is fully on her.

 

His first observation of her is that she is not smiling and she appears troubled. His eyes trace her thin face and the shadows beneath her eyes in displeasure. He thinks she is an absolute _fool_ for ignoring her basic needs over him leaving, but he says nothing and his eyes shoot downward.

 

It is then, in fluorescent lights that his second observation occurs. Lisbon is _very_ naked before him. She has no gun and nothing hides her flushed breasts or the _downy_ dark curls between her legs from his view. Jane jerks his head away.

 

            “Eight years of working together and you still automatically assume I’ll drink tea?” He hears the eye roll in her voice and he glances back at her, focusing _only_ on her face. “Some investigator you are.”

 

Jane says nothing; too busy attempting to drive Lisbon’s physique from his mind by remembering what Red John did to his wife and child.

 

_Blood-soaked curls, sheets, and ribbons of skin._

            “Why in the hell are you here?” She finally asks and he considers toying with her. “Why are you in my kitchen, Jane?”

 

He takes another long sip of his tea. “I’m obviously enjoying a cup of delicious tea.”

 

            “You didn’t come all this way for a cup of tea, Jane,” Lisbon dismisses his comment immediately. “Why are you really here?”  

 

_I miss you_ is a lie, and yet, he holds too much self-respect to say _I screwed up_.

 

He settles for the lie instead and doctors his cup again, as her hand touches his shoulder and his breath hitches.

 

            “I’ve missed you too.”

 

Saint Teresa cannot—does not—lie.

 

            “Wainwright’s asking about you,” Lisbon continues and he thinks—briefly—about asking her to redress. “And Bertram’s breathing down my neck too. The team is awful and I haven’t slept, eaten…”

 

He turns to face her. “I had to do something, Lisbon. Red John’s untouchable and you aren’t safe.” Her laugh hits his ears.

             

            “And you are?” Her expression darkens, her touch disappears and he relaxes. “What a lad of bullshit, Jane. You’re no safer than I am.”

 

            “But you will,” he responds without skipping a beat. “Red John will die and you’ll finally be safe.” Her gaze is skeptical and he supposes he cannot fault her for that, especially as he has fed her some bizarre stories over the past few years.

 

            “Yet, I still won’t sleep or eat,” Lisbon returns coolly and Jane shrugs, as _that’s her problem_. “You’re an absolute asshole, Jane. You shouldn’t be allowed to play with people like that.” He nearly snorts. He has been “like that” since his father taught him how to manipulate crowds, and Lisbon’s needling isn’t going to change him.

 

            “Go put on clothing, Lisbon.”

 

She seems to still and when her hand hits his face, he flinches. “Go to hell, Jane. You don’t get to come into _my_ home and tell me what to do; especially not when you’re fucking a whore.” He cannot help his surprise at her comment. Lisbon knows about Lorelei? His eyes widen. “I’m not an agent of the law for nothing.” His mouth opens and without words, he closes them again.

 

There just are not enough words to explain Lorelei Martins to Lisbon, aside from the fact she is _Red John’s woman_. “You’ve been spying on me?”

 

            “You’re my concern,” Lisbon replies. “So yes, I’ve been spying on you.”

 

Jane frowns. “You have no right.”

 

            “Of course I do.” Lisbon challenges his gaze and when he doesn’t look away, her lips press against his and Jane nearly falls out of his chair. “Go on and say it, Jane. Tell me how safe I’ll be _once_ she leads you to Red John.” He opens his mouth again, when she grabs his hand and presses it against her breast. “I don’t want to be safe. I want to be _full_.”

 

She is warm against him, she is very wet against him, her sweet juices dripping, and his pants are suddenly _excessively_ tight. The feeling reminds him of nearly being drowned as a child, both dizzying and stimulating. And he allows her to push him onto her couch--when did they leave the kitchen?—and he allows her to grind him, to press her body against his.

 

            “No,” he attempts to stop her, until her lips are against his neck and he is aching for her. He feels her working at his vest and his hands move to squeeze her breasts. He squeezes the mounds tenderly, messaging them with nimble fingers until he presses his lips against one of her pink nubs and bites. Lisbon whimpers, pressing her body against him.

 

His fingers suddenly dip inside of her and he rubs his thumb against her clit, until she arches so beautifully away from him that he tugs on her breast with his teeth to return her to him.

 

::::

 

Afterwards, he offers her an awkward apology and she _laughs_.

 

            “We’re two consenting adults, Jane,” Lisbon replies with a shrug, as he offers her his shirt to wear. She rejects it with a _look_. “It’s not like I asked you to marry me, so relax.” His fingers trace the bruises across her stomach and she grimaces, forcing him to shift away from her.

 

            “Not to sound cliché,” Jane answers, “but I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

 

Lisbon rolls her eyes. “Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?”

 

Jane only smiles. “I’m tougher than you think, Lisbon.”

 

            “Oh yeah?” Lisbon asks and Jane nods, before her expression darkens again. “How about you prove it?” He opens his mouth to poke fun, when she silences him by wrapping her hands around his neck.

 

Jane gasps for air.

 

            “I know why you’re _truly_ here, and,” he hears her, although her voice sounds miles away and he is still fighting for air. “I’m not becoming another casualty for you.”

 

::::

 

When Jane finally stops breathing, Lisbon removes her hands from his neck and moves from the couch.

 

She does not bother dressing as she retrieves her service weapon and places the barrel of it into her open mouth.

 

(Seconds later, she pulls the trigger and her body collapses to the ground.)


End file.
